Loose Tongues

Chris Simms

Description

What's wrong, killer got your tongue? It's DC Sean Blake's first week on the job, but already he faces a series of brutal and bizarre killings: women are being strangled in their homes, each with a mobile phone forced down their throat. There are never any signs of a struggle or forced entry. The Greater Manchester Police have no leads. Blake can't afford to waste any time - even as he picks apart the disturbing motive behind the murders, the case takes a turn for the personal. Can he stop the killer before another woman is silenced forever?

Sujets

• Psychological thriller
• Greater Manchester
• Lancashire
• Merseyside
• Grand Manchester
• Lancastre
• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Canongate Books
• Date de parution: 05 septembre 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781786895103
• Langue: English

Extrait

Chris Simms' novels include the DI John Spicer and the DC Iona Khan series. His books have received nominations for Crime Writers' Association Daggers and the Theakston's Crime Novel of the Year award. @SimmsComment chrissimms.info
Also by Chris Simms
DI Jon Spicer series
Killing The Beasts Shifting Skin Savage Moon Hell's Fire The Edge Cut Adrift Sleeping Dogs Death Games

DC Iona Khan series
Scratch Deeper A Price to Pay



First published in Great Britain, the USA and Canada in 2019 by Black Thorn, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE
This digital edition first published in 2019 by Black Thorn
First published in 2018 by Severn House Publishers Ltd, Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY
blackthornbooks.com
Copyright © Chris Simms, 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidentsare either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 7869 492 2 eISBN 978 1 78689 510 3
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Epilogue
To Abi. Without you, this novel would not exist.
Thanks to the lovely folk at Severn House; you make the process of publishing a pleasure!
AUTHOR'S NOTE
For the sake of drama and pace, I took certain liberties with what the police can access from a murder victim's phone, and how fast. I'm aware of these inaccuracies, so please don't email me to tell me off! I d also like to thank Jim K and Ray R, my two trusty plot advisors, for all their deft suggestions. Join Chris Simms Readers Club to get latest news, special offers and an exclusive novella absolutely free. www.chrissimms.info/readersclub
PROLOGUE
H e liked the sight of liquefying wire. The way he could alter something so dramatically, it filled him with hope for the future. Sharp fumes from the soldering iron rose up, causing his nose and lips to twitch. It was the closest he ever strayed to a smile.
The space where he worked had been a garage, once. But it had housed no car in a long time. This was where his tools were hoarded. Full cabinets and crowded shelves. A workbench pockmarked by years of hard labour, its edge clamped in the iron grip of a vice. Next to it towered a vertical drill, the machine s bit pointing down like a cruel proboscis.
The garage was windowless. Hanging from a peg on the side door was a courier driver s uniform: plain navy trousers and a matching jacket. Insignia on the sleeves and a silver winged logo above the chest pocket. Small details that gave the impression of someone official. He d purchased it from a fancy dress shop in Chicago for $39.99.
Suspended above his head was a double strip light, its contented hum only showing itself during pauses in the programme playing on a nearby radio. The presenter asked a question in his mature, measured tones. The studio guest s voice, in contrast, was shrill and increasingly insistent.
There can be no flexibility on this. Absolutely none. How could a society that classes itself as civilized even consider it? I mean really, how could it? The whole thing is just another example of the victim-blaming that occurs every day in our male-dominated-
He pressed a button, cutting her off mid-sentence. He hoped for some relief, but as the song playing on the next station wound to a close, the DJ began to speak. The female DJ.
Sorry if I m harping on about this, listeners. But ten litres of wine, per person, per year? Just tipped down the sink? Ten. Litres. I m getting quite emotional here. Those bottles weren t half empty, people, they were half full! Oh, oh, the sheer waste! Lara, in Timperley, has texted to say that she sometimes pops the cork on a red, only to realize-
He clicked again, more aggressively this time. The radio fell silent.
Annoying loud bitches, would they never shut up?
He let the quiet settle in then turned his attention back to the console. It was a little larger than those used by genuine delivery drivers, and he d sheathed its casing in rubber, just to be safe. But a casual observer would never know the difference.
Its upper surface was dominated by a glass touchscreen. This was where they d believe a signature was required. The stylus for writing it was metal. A wire ran through the coiled plastic cord attaching it to his creation. That wire then connected to a row of nine-volt batteries concealed in the casing.
The beads of solder he d just applied had now cooled. The Royer circuit he d built inside it was complete. Further along the workbench was a polystyrene block. Embedded in the block was a metal coat hanger bent into the shape of an upturned hand. The clips of a meter had been attached to what represented the thumb. Everything was set.
He put his glasses on and took a breath in, composing himself. Then he lifted the console clear and spoke politely to the wall. Delivery, madam. Yes, for this address. If you could please sign for it here.
He slid the stylus from its holder and laid it across the palm of the improvised hand. The internal mechanism of the stylus had been taken from a 100,000 volt Micro Stun Gun he d purchased during the same trip to Chicago the previous month. He d booked his flight the day after receiving final confirmation that his employment had been terminated at the college in Manchester where he d worked for the last twelve years.
He regarded the stylus for a moment longer then pressed a button hidden from view on the device s underside. A bright blue flash lit the room and the stylus jumped up as if trying to yank itself free of the plastic leash.
He calmly put the console back on the mat, took his glasses off and leaned forward to read the meter.
4.21 milliamps.
Enough to send an adult female flying backwards. Enough to send her crashing to the floor, completely powerless. Enough so he could then silence her. Forever.
ONE
A head poked out of the door and looked left then right. In you come, ladies and gents, boys and girls.
The officer who d spoken was well in to his forties, veins in his temples accentuated by a haircut that had left little more than fuzz.
Sean Blake got to his feet, as did the rest of the group. They glanced awkwardly at one another, each of them clutching a cardboard box. Who was going first?
Jesus, the officer sighed, a palm pressed against the door to stop it swinging shut. Marko, lead the way, will you?
The person beside Sean immediately stepped forward and disappeared into the incident room. Sean glanced at the remaining two people. As both were female, he took a step back to let them through first. But the nearest one - who he guessed was about the same age as him - gestured with her chin. You re the detective.
With a shrug to show he didn t think that trumped manners, Sean stepped into the noise beyond.
The incident room held over a dozen workstations: cups, photo frames, paperwork and other paraphernalia scattered around most of them.
An officer on the far side of the room stood. Anyone got a Samsung charger I can borrow?
Christ, Ted. Again?
Yeah, sorry.
Troughton pointed. The two empty ones, over there, in the far corner. Ladies, civilian support is off to the right. I think your table s the last one.
As Sean followed his fellow detective constable across the room, he could feel the eyes of the other officers settling on him. His black brogues, not even two days old, had his toes in a terrier-like grip. Shit , he thought. You re walking like a weirdo. Stop it.
The other detective had broad shoulders and a confident way of moving. At about six foot two, he was a good four inches taller than Sean. The difference in height made Sean even more aware of his own stocky build: when feeling uncomfortable, he tended to hunch forward. He knew it made him appear defensive or wary. Even a touch aggressive.
Beside one of the workstations was a window. His new colleague made immediately for it. Box held above the desk, he glanced back. You OK with that one? When I was here before, they had me sitting here.
Sean took a quick look at the rejected workstation. A filing cabinet butted into the space beside the chair. Definitely the arse end of the deal. The other detective s assumption rankled with him. No.
He d already placed his box down. Sorry?
From the corner of his eye, Sean saw the nearest two detectives heads turn.
This side has miles less room. I don t really want it, either.
Oh. The other detective s hands stayed on his box.
Sean plonked h